When Joe started feeling sick, we thought it was heartburn. Then his skin turned yellow and he began losing weight. In August, the doctor told us he had cancer.
For four months, Medicaid covered Joe’s medical care, including chemotherapy and radiation treatment. But when his disability benefits kicked in – worth about $1,400 a month – they took away his state-sponsored health coverage. Joe called the federal and state health departments and the Social Security Administration. “I’d rather have Medicaid than the disability stipend,” Joe told them. “Without Medicaid, there’s no way I can pay for my treatment.”
But they said there was no flexibility. We’d run into an absurd flaw in the system.
To pay for Joe’s medical care, I started working two jobs, a total of 16 hours a day. We sold our cars and our television. We started eating soup and noodles instead of meat. But no matter how much we saved, it was never enough. We drove to Mexico – 20 minutes from our home in south Texas – for CT scans and MRIs, which cost a fraction of the price across the border, even though the machines were identical to the ones in American hospitals.
For a while, it seemed like our sacrifices were paying off. In October 2006, Joe’s cancer went into remission. But then a routine visit to the doctor revealed that it had returned, and spread to his liver.
I started looking for another way to fund Joe’s treatment. The government still refused to help, saying we made too much money to qualify for Medicaid. I thought to myself, “$25,000 a year is too much money?” I could barely afford to feed my family.
Finally, a pharmaceutical company agreed to fund some of his treatment. It felt like a miracle. But by Joe’s next chemotherapy session, there was still no word from the company. Two weeks passed, and Joe got sicker every day. We were at their mercy and they had forgotten all about us.
I knew then that Joe would die. He was so weak that he could hardly stand. His skin clung to bone. Joe was only 41, but he looked like an old man.
I wanted him to pass peacefully, but his last days were full of anger and bitterness. He felt betrayed by the system and was sure that if he had health insurance, he would have survived.
My church paid for Joe’s funeral and I was left to raise four children alone, to somehow pay back our enormous financial debt. But the scariest part was that I couldn’t afford health insurance for myself or my children. After Joe’s ordeal, I shuddered to think about the consequences.
So when I starting feeling ill in February, I tried to ignore it. Eventually, though, my condition was too serious to neglect. The doctor gave me a mammogram and, a few days later, told me I had terminal breast cancer. But so far, I’m hopeful. I’m getting the treatment I need; Planned Parenthood, a non-profit women’s health care provider, has agreed to fund my chemotherapy.
Still, without health insurance, my medical care is never guaranteed. If I survive, I’ll need hormone treatment for the rest of my life. But who’s going to pay for it? I already owe more than I’ll ever earn.
I try not to think too much about that, though. For the moment, I’m just trying to survive.
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